


Constants And Variables

by allofthisforgotten



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drugs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Mental Breakdown, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthisforgotten/pseuds/allofthisforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple self-medication is much in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings : Incest, drugs, mentions of sex, nostalgia, slight angst, cis-gendered, heterosexual, self-medication, runaways, and wordy writing.  
> Pairings : DavexRose (knighlight, dersecest)  
> Timeline : In which the game never happened. Au, of course.

I'm watching the clock again. 2:02 in the morning, and I'm stuck idling in a sparsely lit parking lot just outside of some picturesque city in the Midwest Boston maybe? I find it hard to keep track of every place we stop. Every city is somehow the same set of architecture organized in a different fashion, different colors. The leaves are changing and just before sunset the light shines through them, casting a shadow of thin veins and edges on the perfectly paved streets and ornate wrought iron fences.

It would be beautiful, but it reminds me of Dave. It reminds me that he used to get excited at such a perfect opportunity to take some sort of mid-seventies inspired photograph that he would later inscribe with some “life changing” hipster epithet. It reminds me that I took for granted all the times he dragged me out in the freezing snow to capture some strange out of place trinket; or more often a landscape framed by some seemingly impossible formation of branches. I miss his Polaroid phase, I miss his film phase, and I even miss his unshakable urge to snap a photo of me in every city, once at dawn, once at twilight, sitting somewhere against the backdrop of the sky.

Yet, all things change, and slowly our pact to never stay more than one night anywhere became more of a necessity than a choice. He'd begun to make a habit of acquiring large groups of single serving enemies, and allowing them to beat the living hell out of him. Sometimes it was bar fights, sometimes drug dealers, sometimes cops. This little ritual always ended with me waiting somewhere dark and eerie while he followed up his latest conquest with whatever he could manage to sniff, smoke, or swallow.

Tonight it would be clear liquor of some type. I'd become a regular wizard at identifying what set of variables added up to what addiction. Weather. Local population. Urgency. Location. It seems an unnecessary detail to keep track of, because much like the architecture, it is a puzzle made of the same pieces arranged differently, but serving the exact same purpose. After a while it's all the same shit different night. Yet, here I am, placing bets with myself and watching the LED lights on the dashboard count down to 2:12. At least I can count on him to be on time.

If my analysis of the situation was correct, it'd be best to have the car on, and my shirt off. Without having to look, I know he'll be stumbling across the parking spaces, bottle in hand. It will slip and shatter before he reaches the car and after a passive aggressive attempt to punish him, I'll break down crawl into the backseat to open the door that insofar eludes his motor reflexes. We'll struggle to get him inside, but once we've claimed victory and the gate to our enemies is closed, he'll lay between my legs, his head somehow balanced on one my left breast, fingers running the distance of the scar that traces the right half of my collarbone. We won't break the silence, and I'll fall asleep to his breath on my chest.

Had it been brown liquor, I'd spend the rest of the early morning light struggling to keep him off of me, but still in the confines of the car; and without breaking another window. Whatever ruckus he'd stirred up would be worse, and once he finally passed out, I'd attend to his wounds. Those nights, I forgo sleep. Had it been heroin or Vitamin K, I'd be dragging his dead weight into the passenger seat and driving away. Had it been cocaine, ecstasy, or meth I'd be face down in the backseat, legs spread, biting the seat cover.

My little crystal ball changes to 2:12, and I hear him try in vain to master the latch to the back door. Tonight the entire front of his shirt dyed a very dark shade of red, which is not all that impressive a sight, considering I'd never quite managed to get his cloths free of the stains from the previous nights. Half of his sunglasses are dangling from one ear, the other half lost forever. As foretold he is sullen, and I welcome him into the backseat. I remove the broken plastic and replace it with a shiny new pair of sunglasses just before he takes his predetermined place and I settle in for the night.

This morning is different. The air is warm but unremarkable, and the sky is a typical gradient of purple's and blues as the sun greets the clouds. It is, by all accounts, the most average appearance of any day anywhere, but still, I sense a change. I shift under Dave's sleeping weight, just enough to reach my pack of cigarettes. I have two left, and nothing to beg or barter with for more. The thought crosses my mind that I ought to hold off, but it's been a long night and this creeping feeling is starting to make me uneasy. A simple self-medication is much in need. Of course, this stirs the slumbering, and I know it's not long before I'm in for one of Dave's rare but fun rants about how horrible smoking is for you, and give me a drag so you kill yourself slower, no it's not hypocritical, I'm your brother, I do whats right for you in spite of myself.

Does he really know what's right for me? We've been to every state twice over and I've spent more time tending wounds than seeing sights. But still, he is my brother, and though technically we're twins, he is, by a hairs breadth, technically older (which he never fails to bring up in any conversation regardless if it does or doesn't relate.) This particular morning the rant is longer and much more adamant than most, so I tune him out and focus on the way he moves when he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and climbs into the front seat. It takes a moment for me to realize he's thrown my shirt at me and started the car. He waits, as I slip it over my head and haphazardly fall into the passenger seat. Then, like all mornings, we're off to another battle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know it tears him up to hear me dying of laughter. I know it’s only because he wishes he could do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : Incest, graphic sex, liquor, allusions to rape, blood, mental breakdown, angst, violence, cis-gendered, heterosexual, self-medication, runaways.  
> Extra Warnings : I have not proofread this. I’m sorry.  
> Pairings : DavexRose  
> Timeline : In which the game never happened. Au, of course.

The conversation is initially shallow and meaningless. We play a very intensely competitive game of ‘I Spy’. We stop for breakfast at the most dingy gas station we can find. He muses about how trapped everyone looks, how miserable. I fail to comment on how incredibly inward he’s looking. He fails to comment on how I fall asleep in the passenger seat in the middle of the day and wake up in the backseat with him on top of me just before sunset. He is rough, I am obedient. I let him get off, he doesn’t ask why I don’t. I don’t ask who he is thinking of when he fucks me, he doesn’t ask if I’m silently wishing he’d love me as much as he fucks me.

It’s a very delicate truce, and both sides must play accordingly.

The foreboding atmosphere is almost forgotten by the time he slips out of the car, and I laze about in the front seat debating if I should take the chance and venture into the convenience store across the street. I know Dave doesn’t like me to leave the car without him. I also know my stomach is doing Olympic gold medal level gymnastics likely due to hunger, and that I have to use the bathroom, and that I have at about two hours before he returns. The choice is easy, and before I know it I find myself buried in a treasure trove of junk food, liquor, and cigarettes. After all, I rarely ever stay in the car  _all_ night.

When I come back to the world I’d escaped, I’m trapped in what seems like thousands of wrapper pyramids, the bottles are all empty, and Dave is sprawled out on the hood of the car staring at the stars. My head is spinning and my muscles are weak, but I manage to coordinate enough to wipe away a swath of fog from the windshield. Just enough to see him mumbling to himself. Wait, no, not to himself – I think, maybe, he has a phone? I try to make out the words, but my ears are filled with cotton, and I can’t keep my head steady enough to read his lips. He’s gesturing wildly, obviously irritated or excited, but I can’t tell which.

He notices I’m awake and whatever conversation he’d been having stops short. He brushes off his phone partner, snapping the phone closed, and hops off the car leaving trails that hypnotize me as he moves. I’m still watching the ghosts disappear against the headlights when my body registers the pressure of his hands at my wrists. I don’t bother to look. I can tell he’s angry, and I’d much rather contemplate the stars forming around the parking lot lamps than confront the trauma to come. I may be drunk – trashed – but I’d like to think that even so, I have a sense of self-preservation.

I want to ask if it’s cold. I want to know why the heat of his breath is so stiffing. I want to know what my punishment is. I want to ask why such a double standard is placed on girls. I want to know why he’s just hovering there, like a car in the left lane just before an exit you really need to take, but can’t because goddammit, go away. Just go away. I think behind the haze of my own inebriation I have some sort of existentialist crisis of self and I think I feel shame for being so embarrassingly out of my mind sprawled across the two front seats with the gear shift pressing achingly into the small of my back. I think. My conscious thoughts are occupied by a particularly shinny border of candy wrappers sticking out of the glove compartment, and damn, how did I manage to make such a perfectly spaced gradient of rainbow?

I say nothing, but my legs part on their own. I know looking down at myself I’d be disgusted, but they open nevertheless. He scoffs, and releases my wrists, hands roaming slowly down my sides. His palm is surprisingly warm when he passes the fabric of my skirt, which has bunched up in places and isn’t doing such a good job of being clothing. Down, down, and further down, until he takes a turn at my ankle, and then up, up up. I still as he slows his pace and lightens his touch. Such a simple thing, yet he knows it lights my nerves on fire, and just before I start to squirm, at the height of my sensitivity he yanks his hand away slams an open palm into my thigh. It’s sufficient enough to both close my legs and shock me into yelping. Say what you want about Dave’s habits, but he’s efficient.

He drags me out of the car feet first, and I land in a shower of iridescent wrappers on the cold rough cement. Between cradling my newly acquired welt and clutching my screaming head I manage to slur a few insults in his direction as he aggressively “cleans out the car.” I don’t think he’s paying much attention to me anyway as he throws glass bottles out the passenger side window, because as they shatter I catch a few of the shards with my bare legs. I don’t feel it, but I can see it, and I spend the next few minutes drawing on myself with my own blood. I’m covered in smiley faces and kindergarten landscapes when he drags me to my feet and officially claims victory in the battle of the night. He knows I threw the battle, I let him win, but it doesn’t matter. I still lost.

“What the fuck Rose? I’m gone for fucking thirty minutes. No, hey, fucking look at me.” He jerks my head to face him, and I try to avoid his eyes. “I’m serious Rose. You’re trashed. You were fucking gone by the time I got here – the doors on the car were unlocked. Fuck. What if it would have been someone else? Huh?”

I don’t answer. There isn’t a good one anyway. “You could have been raped. Or killed. I could’ve come back to an empty car and a trail of fucking blood leading to a dumpster. I told you to stay in the car and wait. Why is that so damn hard? Why do you have to ignore me like this all the time? Lock the damn doors. Stay in the car. Two simple things. Two very simple fucking things. Jesus fucking christ.”

“Check your privilege.” It’s all I’ve got. In all my vocabulary, with all my self-taught literary education, all I can muster is a bad quote from a group of childish brats on tumblr that doesn’t really even make sense in context. I stare at him trying to process all the possible meanings behind the phrase, and it’s all so ridiculous, that I can’t stop the laughter from bubbling up in my throat. Once it’s spilled over all bets are off, and even when he punches the car inches from my shoulder I can’t stop. I try biting my fist and reasoning with myself but all it does is transition my jovial desperate giggles into nervous break down giggles.

He tries to calm down, bowing his head and leaning into his pose, palms pressed firmly into the car on either side of me. He sighs, and I know that he’s closing his eyes and counting to ten, even though I can’t see him through his glasses or hear him over the obnoxious sound of my own laughter. Every giggle would be a river of tears if I had the courage, or at least the sanity, to follow through with my own breakdown.

I know it tears him up to hear me dying of laughter. I know it’s only because he wishes he could do the same. But we bury our pain in two very different ways, and when the capacity of our respective thresholds is met, we both grieve in our own way. In a strange, but symbiotic coincidence (or maybe out of some sort of strange twin empathy), we have a shared point of return to stability.

_We are resisting._

_My body is shaking._

_His fists are clenching._

_My heart is racing._

_His will is slipping._

_I stop thinking._

_We are giving in._

His fingernails dig into my thighs as he lifts me into the air and then slams me back into the car in one smooth motion. Had he or I been anyone else I might be afraid of him, of how effortlessly he gains control. He’s somehow violent and sudden but fluid and patient as he kisses me, biting on my lip, drawing blood, and simultaneously sliding up my skirt. His eyes are open. This is the only time he looks me when we fuck – when he needs to watch me. To make sure I don’t forget that it’s him leaving a trail bruises and teeth marks. That I am not face down, crying. That I can stop him at any time.

But let’s not pretend this is all about me. He needs to know he has control as much as I need to relinquish it – he needs to be the one breaking me down and building me back up as much as I need his body to purify every inch of me. He believes he can hide how much he believes this delivers him from his perceived failures by shielding his eyes from view, but he gives himself away in the way his breathing hitches, in the way he draws himself up, in the way he possesses my every movement. His need radiates from him just like the heat gathering between us.

There is no pretense, no foreplay, no slow teasing. He doesn’t graze my nipples lovingly with his lips or caress my inner thigh. I don’t brush my fingertips across his ever-so-sensitive collarbones, or whisper his name encouragingly. We have no need. We have been ready for ages.

He releases one of my legs to free one of his arms, and we shift to balance our collective weight against the car. My hands move to grapple with the buttons of his jeans, and he uses his free hand to lay siege to my breasts. He grows quickly impatient with my inability to free him from his denim prison, and separates us just enough to expertly pull open his jeans. The cold air rushes between us, and I am suddenly aware of how attractively his pants cling to his hips. The contours of his muscles make the most lovely of paths, that, had I been another person, he would let me walk.

_If only._

Dave saves me from my own wistful dreaming and closes the distance. My hands dip beneath the boundary of his boxers and tries in vain to hold back a gasp as my fingers close around him. His hips jump forward unconsciously and he buries his head against my shoulder. His body is on fire and there is a fine layer of sweat already starting to form between us. I can imagine his face twisted in restraint as he bites down on his inner cheek. He always does his best to resist  _really_  enjoying the way it feels to have his baby sisters hand sliding up and down his cock.

It is a rare treat that I am allowed to touch him this way - in fact, it takes the world shattering around us for me to be granted access. Tonight it seems I am full of unthinkable luck, and I allow myself to revel in the small victory. He shudders, pressing closer and I take a chance by pulling him out of his boxers. His grip on my ass tightens, a slight warning, but I continue, arranging my wrist so that he can slide against my outer opening. It’s an unspoken rule that on these nights we never trespass that invisible boundary that would connect us completely – so I keep my fingers wrapped around him as a precaution. Instantly he picks up his pace and I realize immediately how dangerously intoxicating this is, but I can stop my own hips from meeting his.

Too soon he realizes how close we are to crossing the arbitrary line. His body is reacting desperately, thrusting sporadically, almost crying out for me to relent and slide my hand away. We’re both gasping for air by the time he comes to the rescue, and slides his free hand between my legs, fingers only half satiating my urge to have something inside of me. Still, Dave’s knowledge of my body is incredibly accurate and it becomes increasingly difficult to hold back my voice.

“Dave. God. Oh god.”

Dave manages to mutter some sort of encouragement between moans, assuring me that it’s okay, it’s okay baby. His body is starting to tremble violently, and he matches the pace of his hips to the rhythm of his fingers. It almost feels as if we’re actually linked, though it’s still impossible to imagine it as such because in my haze I can still recognize the sensation of my hand holding him back.

“Baby. Fuck baby, I’m close.” He need not say it, I can feel his temperate rise and his muscles start to strain. Still, I can’t deny the fact that the simple sentence causes my entire body to ignite with heat. He thrusts one last time and let’s go, twitching and trembling the whole way down.

Not a man to waste time or mince words, he gathers his breath and hastily tucks himself away, unaware of just how close his orgasm brought me to mine. I struggle, combating my own reactions, and gather every once of self control I have to keep from ending this moment. Dave has other plans. He slides a second finger inside me and moves in quick violent gestures, killing all hope of a return from the crest my own fast approaching end. When I can no longer prevent my own orgasm from crashing into me in, he pulls back and watches me peak. Had I been able to keep from closing my eyes, I might have caught the coy smirk that danced across his lips.

As the pleasure subsides I feel the beginnings of my own aftershock swell up in my chest, and the tears start. They are silent at first, but it’s not long before I’m sobbing into Dave’s chest. He keeps quiet and picks me up, placing me inside the car to curl up and wait out the worst of it. I can’t speak, but even if I could, I wouldn’t. He cleans my hand and thigh off and I fall asleep whimpering pathetically as he starts our quest to another town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note : I am incredibly surprised I managed to finish this chapter. I’m even more surprised I actually finished the sex scene as that is the hardest thing for me to write. I don’t know why, but I think it might have something to do with wording it correctly.
> 
> Anyways, this is actually going somewhere. I have a few ideas (actual plot! it’s amazing!) that I am struggling with, but will try to work out. There is going to be plot, I promise. Somewhere. Eventually

**Author's Note:**

> Authors Note : I started this because I can find absolutely nothing in the knightlight/daverose/dersecest fandom that really works for me for this pairing. That's not to say what's out there is bad, but it's just not my cup of tea.
> 
> Ahem. Anyways, I also haven't really written anything in years. Writing has always been my better half's thing and I dabble in it sporadically and with much frustration. Hence the reason this is so short. I am working on the first chapter, but I am an adult who suffers from a condition called "full time job" coupled with the affliction "rarely finishes anything I start." So we'll see.


End file.
